


Isolated System

by Acteon_Carolsfeld



Series: Isolation [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen, Other, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acteon_Carolsfeld/pseuds/Acteon_Carolsfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An outbreak sweeps across the planet. A scattered group of bots find themselves trapped and abandoned in a city with a populace of sparkeaters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isolated System

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Text depiction of blood and robot gore; hastily edited; contains passing OCs
> 
> Continuity: Referencing IDW, TFP; “Insatiable" AU Vos

Iacon was a bustling metropolitan hive boasting a span of more than three times the width of other Cybertronian city-states. Hundreds of shuttles entered and left its six primary transport hubs, circulating a constant populace flow of five consecutive digits to and fro from the city. Rush hour lasted throughout most of the day. Air traffic was heavily regulated by its ground-bound officials. Silver skyscrapers lined its streets, bridges crisscrossing between them, thick enough to block out the sun.

For many, walking was a much shorter commute. After the installation of metrotrains, many roads prohibited the use of vehicle alt-modes. The boarding platforms were crowded, but with trains every five minutes, the wait wasn’t long. Giving up one’s wheels for peds was a bit counterintuitive, but for those who couldn’t afford traffic permits, it was luxury.

Tailgate was a minibot who enjoyed luxuries wherever he could. After all, being a disposal unit wasn’t the most glamorous job in the world. He toddled down the street, prompted by the hurried pace of Iaconians with places to be. He didn’t visit city-center often, but today was a special day. He had a party at Swerve’s to attend, one celebrating Rewind’s engagement to Chromedome. The bar was half a city away from where he lived, but he didn’t mind. He’s always preferred a busy life compared to the relative quiet of outskirts.

Tiny peds pattering twice the speed of his passer-bys, the minibot rushed toward the boarding station. His wide, blue visor darted around, looking for the announcement sign towering over the crowd.

There, on his right, a hologram blinked. Two minutes until the next train. Still plenty of time to wade through the thicket of legs and try not to get kneed in the faceplate.

With a perk in his steps, the disposal unit slipped through the throng of bots.

“Excuse me. Sorry. Minibot coming through.” He squeezed, thanking the ones that actually stopped to give him passage. The sign flashed down to one minute. He pushed through the last row of the mass, and took a deep cycle of ventilation at the edge of the curb. The air was cooler here, devoid of the warm tang of frames.

Tailgate looked around, and trotted toward the stairs. He scanned his ident-chip as he passed through the entrance gate, and picked the shortest line he could find. The sign flashed again. Thirty seconds. He could already catch the hum of an approaching train over the murmur of conversation around him. The PA beeped on.

“The train will be arriving in: T-minus 25 seconds.” The automated voice droned. “Please stand behind the yellow line, and proceed to the back of the train to allow for optimal boarding capacity.”

The hum was louder now. Bots were starting to turn their helms, staring down the tracks.

Tailgate wanted to look too, but standing on the tips of his peds hardly helped.

The sign blinked.

Twenty seconds.

The conversation lulled. Some of the taller bots were frowning.

The hum got louder and louder.

“Fifteen seconds to arrival.” The PA said.

Bots were getting restless. They glanced at each other, EM field rippling in confusion.

Tailgate couldn’t see what was going on.

Ten seconds, the sign flashed.

The hum rose to a roar.

“Five seconds—”

“-It’s not slowing down!” Someone cried out.

Murmurs swelled into shouts.

“The train has arrived.”

 _Zero_.

The train shot past the station.

The tracks screeched.

Light from the windows whizzed across the station, blaring flashes of white.

Tailgate gaped, frozen on his peds.

“…Hey! Where is it going?!” A two-wheeler beside the minibot called out.

“Oh for frag’s sakes…” A tankformer grimaced, and wrapped his hands around his helm.

“It didn’t _stop_.”

“My boss is gonna weld me to the ceiling.”

“When’s the next one?”

That was a good question.

Tailgate turned around, toward the sign.

One minute, and thirty seconds.

… _What_?

The minibot frowned.

The trains were every five minutes. It’s always been this way. It ran on a strict schedule maintained by City Commute.

“…Hey, there’s the next train!” A voice piped up at the front of the line.

The uproar of complaints settled. Everyone stared down the tracks.

The train was audible now, but a skidding shriek cut through its steady hum.

The first sign that something was wrong came from a bot on Tailgate’s left. A science build, with a scope on his shoulder.

“…Everyone step back.” He started shuffling backwards.

“What?” Tailgate turned.

“Everyone step back!” He waved at those around him, optics wide. “Back!”

“Hey mech stop pushing—” The one behind him scooted.

The science build snapped around. He bolted for the stairs without another word.

Bots watched.

Tailgate peeked around a pair of legs, and that was when he saw it:

The crowd, it was running.

The people in the streets, they were all running in the same direction.

“…What in the pits is _going on_ …?” The two-wheeler beside him mumbled, but a cry of alarm cut through her words.

“Get back! Get back!”

Commotion rippled across the platform.

“There’s something on the train!”

The tankformer’s optics rounded. His mouth fell apart, hands unraveling from his head.

The first scream silenced the station.

The sound stalled the minibot’s fuel pump.

A growling shriek followed.

Panic erupted throughout the platform. Bots turned tail, scrambling and shoving for the stairs. Tailgate was caught right in the middle. Peds came flying at his faceplate, and a kick in the head sent him crashing down on his chassis. His cry was a mere whimper in the burst of noise around him. His vision swam, and the sudden splash of blinding light from the speeding train hurt his processors.

Curled on the ground, he looked toward the source of the first scream.

His intakes hitched.

Energon froze cold in his fuel lines.

Bent over a bloody pulp of a frame was a four-wheeler, crouched on his hands and knees. His optics were dark holes welling fluids and torn wires. His mouth hung open, derma seared black, dentae covered in the glistening purple of innermost energon.

For a split moment, Tailgate could’ve sworn the bot looked straight at him.

The mouth stretched wider, jaws snapping.

The bot screamed, and pounced on a mech fleeing for the exit.

“—Aaaargh—”

A gurgle. Glowing fuel splashed across the platform.

The mech jerked and thrashed.

Digits fraying neural lines tore open the chassis as though cloth, and a flare of blue light was the only glimpse Tailgate saw before the four-wheeler gorged down on his victim’s spark.

The minibot couldn’t move.

His limbs shook, and his vision misted in gathering coolant, vents spurting hot air.

The screams were louder now.

Bots were getting tackled and eaten alive on the street.

An explosion heralded an angry blast of red. The sound rattled the glass of the station, and jolted the disposal unit out of his stupor.

Flight frames leapt into the air, regulations be damned.

The screech of jet engines, so low between the buildings, pierced the minibot’s audials.

Tailgate bit back a whimper, and pushed onto his peds. He’s already lingered too long, just long enough to catch the sparkless corpse twitch back to life while the four-wheeler still feasted on him.

Sobs stuttered his ventilation. His visor blurred.

He rushed down the stairs in a flurry, tripping down the last few steps.

The crowd was too thick for a clear path for alt. mode. The only option was escape on foot. Perhaps it was his small stature, but the attackers didn’t seem to notice him, chasing and grappling down large frames. Tailgate didn’t stay to find out the reason. He took off, as fast as his little legs could take him. He ran past a mech screaming his last breaths as a horde brought him down. He covered his audials, and pretended to not hear a femme crying out for help when three bots leaking body parts cornered her against a building.

Tailgate ran.

Even when his system flared in warning, he ran.

He ran for Swerve’s. He didn’t know where else to go.

His only thought was that of his friends.

They were safe.

They had to be.

They had to be.

* * *

 

The low boom of explosions was a mere rumble at the other side of the city. Copters flew between the buildings, toward the scene of battle. Traffic here was sparse. The lockdown was successful thus far, enforced by officers at every street former.

Elita-One barreled down the road in her shuttle, one audial kept on military line-one. She veered around a corner, and slammed on the brakes.

“Orion? Orion!” She leapt out out the door, and swung her rifle over her shoulder.

The doors to the Central Iaconian Archives slid open. Orion dashed out, blue optics round and gleaming.

“Elita—” He ran into her arms, and clung around her frame.

“It’s okay. Shh, shhh…” She rested her chin on the top of his helm, and gave him a tight squeeze. “C’mon. We don’t have much time.” She pulled away, digits firm around his trembling hand.

Orion followed, gaze wide as he took in the shuttle.

“Prison Transfer?” He echoed the glyphs painted on the side of the vehicle.

“Triple plated.” Elita answered, opening the passenger door. “It’s safe. Nothing can bite through _this_.”

“ _Bite_?” The archivist frowned as he climbed onto the seat. His voice wavered.

“Yeah,” The femme answered, and closed the door. She trotted around the shuttle before sliding into the driver’s seat. “You got the credit chips?”

“Yeah, I did.” Orion nodded, clutching tighter around the datapads against his chassis.

Elita gave the stack a glance as she started the shuttle, and pulled away from the curb. “What’s that?”

“You said to pack valuables.”

“Valuables.” She repeated, a huff of genuine laughter falling through her lips.

Orion didn’t share her moment of humour.

“What’s happening?” He asked. “Why are we leaving the city?”

The little glimmer of happiness waned. Her smile ebbed.

“The Prime is dead. The Matrix is lost.” She said, flooring the gas past empty streets.

“…What?” A shaky whisper.

“Iacon is going under quarantine, at least by official orders.” Elita grimaced. “In thirty minutes, the city will be cut off. That’s when the troops move in. It’ll be all out war.”

“ _War_?” Orion was gaping at her, optics stretched to limits. “With _who_?”

“The Diseased.” She replied. “Containment at the factory sector failed. The Council is transferring to Luna-2. The last space shuttle leaves in fifteen minutes. We can make it. I have a friend that will take you with him. You will be safe there. It’ll be crowded and unpleasant, but you’ll be safe.”

For a moment, Orion was silent. Elita could see him staring at her from her peripheral.

“…You said ‘ _you_ ’.” The archivist whispered. “You said ‘ _you_ ’, Elita!” His voice rose.

She swallowed a sigh. “I can’t leave.” She stressed.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to stay. _Please_ don’t say you’re going to stay!”

His cries pinched at the end. Elita pursed her lips, and bit down hard on her jawjoints.

“You’re First Lieutenant.” Orion begged. “They _need_ you on Luna-2!”

“They need me _here_ , on sight, with my soldiers.” She didn’t mean to snap at her _endura_ , and the startle in his frame tightened her grip around the steering wheel.

“…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” She could only spare a glance, but it was enough to ease the tension in the smaller mech’s shoulders. There was almost a smile. However, they’d arrived at the check point, and bots with blasters always made the archivist nervous.

Elita turned off the shuttle. “Here,” She handed him a chip card. “Hold on to this and don’t lose it. No one will give you trouble if you have this.”

“Okay.” He took it, and hugged it along with his datapads.

The militant gave him a once-over, and let out a laugh.

“When this is all over, we _have_ to get you a proper subspace compartment.” She wrapped her hand around his helm, and leaned in close, pressing their foreheads together. “I don’t mean to leave you,” She whispered, gaze bearing into his, “but the condition of your travel to Luna-2 is that I stayed and oversaw clearing the city.”

Orion looked terrified, but he was holding together, posture shaky at best but EM field an even pulse.

“Cyclonus is a good friend, a trusted friend.” She said. “He is honorable, and he will do everything within his power to keep his word.” She took a deep ventilation. “He would’ve traded with me if he could, but his place is at the side of our Grand General.” She pulled away with much reluctance. “Galvatron has a good spark. A strict one, but good.” She flashed her love a wavering smile. “You will be safe under his protection.”

“I understand.” Orion smiled back. The sight was so beautiful that it almost crumbled her resolve. “I’ll be useful.” He promised. “I won’t cause them any trouble.”

“That’s my bot.” Elita rubbed his cheek with a thumb, and gave him a pat on the back. “C’mon, let’s get you to the transport hub.”

* * *

There were an awful lot of military personnel at the shuttle bay today. They were ushering bots with shimmering paintjobs to the boarding ports, and flights kept getting rescheduled. Even stranger was that anyone who complained was escorted away by the transport guards.

Rung watched the proceedings with the same demeanor he did everything else in his life – silently, and unnoticed. He tried connecting to the communications network at the hub, but his attempts all met with the same result:

“Connection failed. Click to reestablish contact.”

The bespectacled mech let out a sigh, and flopped back against the chair. He was supposed to be on a shuttle already, but his boarding was postponed for four hours. He had appointments in Praxus, and the extra wait was cutting his arrival really close. He’d attempted calling the clinic, but his comm. wasn’t working either, though he didn’t seem to be the only one having trouble.

There have already been five arrests of agitators riled up from the lack of contact with the outside world. This entire situation was odd. No one appeared to be leaving the hub either.

There were a lot of soldiers at the shuttle bay.

They were carrying very big guns.

Rung watched, optics widening, as a new entourage appeared through the pair of wide, glass doors. General Galvatron was at the head of the group, talking to Cyclonus, his personal guard. They spoke for a while, and separated after a nod from the superior.

Cyclonus remained behind. He looked like he was waiting for someone.

Rung nibbled on his lips in thought.

What was the _Grand General_ of the Cybertronian Fleet doing at a _civilian_ transport hub?

“…Hey. Hey!”

Rung jolted. He wasn’t expecting anyone to notice him.

“Yes?” He looked up, and met a yellow optic.

“You look smart.” It was a blue copter. “You an intellect?”

“Um…” Rung frowned. “…Yes?” His field of studies was definitely considered academic.

“Lemme guess…” The yellow optic narrowed, and the mech peered down at him. “You…are a _doctor_.”

Rung still wasn’t sure why the copter was speaking to him.

“Well…I—I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” He shrugged a little with a shoulder, and smiled with a tilt of his helm. “I do have a degree, so yes, I _can_ be called a Doctor if you—”

“-Then what the frag are you doin’ _here_?!”

The outburst startled the small, orange bot. Rung jerked back, fingers squeezing around his datapad.

“You should be on the shuttle!” The copter exclaimed. “C’mon. I’ll take you.”

“The-The shuttle?” Rung’s frown deepened. “But I thought—”

“Stop thinkin’. No time.” A pair of pincers snatched him by his skinny arm. “All the brains go in the shuttle _now_.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” The bespectacled minibot stumbled to match the pace of longer legs.

“So what’s your specialty? I wanna bring in someone _important_.” The copter cast him a glance, and clicked his other pair of pincers.

“I’m a psychotherapist.” Rung answered.

“What’s that?”

“Well,” The minibot shuttered his optics, and smiled. “I suppose you can say I work with brains.”

“ _Damn_ ,” The taller bot snorted a laugh. “I’m just that good, huh.”

* * *

Cyclonus checked his internal chronometer for the third time in a row, and referenced the transport hub’s central countdown. They both came back with the same results.

Elita-One was late.

He crossed his arms, and ignored the noise around him. The flat intone of announcements. The droning of crate carts as they drove by. The beeping of service droids. The murmur of bots waiting for shuttles that would never come. There were raised voices, behind a bend, down a wide corridor, and a group of guards ran past him, toward the source. Cyclonus spared them only a flicker of a look. It was nothing out of the ordinary. After all, civilians could be violent when incensed.

“Um, excuse me?” A soft voice called out behind him.

Cyclonus turned around. A slim-framed mech with meek optics was the one that spoke.

“You are…Cyclonus, correct?”

“Yes.” The jet answered, unraveling his arms. “With whom do I speak?”

“I am Orion Pax.” The grounder replied. “I’m Elita’s—”

“-Conjunx endura, yes.” Cyclonus nodded. “Where is Lieutenant One?”

“There was trouble. I’m sorry I’m late.” Orion hugged his datapads. His hands were shaking.

The jet frowned. “What is it?”

“I think—I-I think we should go. Quickly.” The smaller mech scooted forward, and whispered, optics glowing bright. “We should go _now_.”

“Of course.” The flier said. “We will board the shuttle.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Orion’s breathing was uneven, hushed. “Is there someone you can talk to? The shuttle has to go.”

“Take-off is scheduled for ten more minutes,” Cyclonus stated, “but that is not your concern.”

Orion opened his mouth, undoubtedly to argue, but a squad of guards bumped into his shoulder as they shoved through the waiting room. The archivist stumbled with a yelp, and the jet caught him before he could fall. The waiting room was busy. The noise was distracting. However, as the flier helped the grounder straighten, he thought he’d heard the fading end of a scream, covered by the PA.

More guards ran past them. Most civilians didn’t even lift their helms.

Cyclonus’s optics focused on the mouth of the corridor.

Tension swept down his wings.

The guards had their blasters on termination.

The PA cut mid-sentence, but people didn’t even notice, as it had long ago blended into the background.

“…What happened?” The jet asked as he strode for the boarding port, yanking his charge after him.

“The checkpoint was overrun. Elita had to stay behind, to stall as much as she can.” Orion was a rattle of parts. His voice was thin. His ventilation skidded. “She told me to find you, and that I can’t raise any alarm. She said that if I made any indication that something wasn’t right, everyone at the transport hub would—”

A scream sliced through the noise.

In an instance, the waiting room dropped to complete silence.

Cyclonus stalled for only a split moment, but it was enough.

The first victim was a truckformer. She barely had time to turn around before a bite ripped out her neck cables, splattering a wide arc of energon on the wall. Her cry cut to a choke of blood gushing past her lips, just in time to herald an eruption of terror inside the waiting bay.

Civilians bolted from their seats, clamoring toward the boarding port. One by one, they fell with wailing screams, digits digging into the floor as the Diseased tore out their plating and sank their dentae into exposed systems. Guards tried to barricade the corridor, but the Diseased were too fast, maws with dangling cables drenched in fluids biting into limbs and spark chambers. Gunfire filled the room, but the shots did not stop the horde.

How did one kill the undead? There was no spark to extinguish.

“ _Move_!” Cyclonus grabbed his charge, and shoved the grounder ahead.

Orion startled into action, sprinting toward the boarding gates, ventilation whirring loud and optics bright.

“E-Elita…Elita…!” He kept chanting, intakes hitching to the jerks of his shoulders.

“She’s alright. She is skilled, and strong.” The jet shouted over the piercing screams. “Keep straight. Make a right at the first passage.” He swung down an arm, hand transforming into blasters. “Get your chip card ready. They won’t let you on-board unless you have identification.”

They raced down the hall. Civilians followed them, by fluke or reason, Cyclonus did not know. There were shots, and the mech beside the jet toppled with a cry. Orion’s helm swirled around to look. His pace slowed.

“Go!” Cyclonus pushed him onward. “Don’t look back. It’s straight to the boarding gate from here. I will join you.”

“-What?!” Orion fought to turn. “You can’t—!”

“ _Go_!” The flier bellowed.

The archivist jumped, but he took off as instructed.

Cyclonus watched him for a moment to make sure he was leaving. At the exact same instance, a round of blasts flew past his helm in a ring, and shattered the glass of the observatory windows. He ducked with a curse, jerking in a sharp pivot. Behind him, a guard was covered under a pile of Diseased, cables snapping and energon bubbling out of his mouth. The bot was alive still, an arm still attached. With a gurgling cry, he pointed his blaster at his head, and splattered a mosaic of brain module into the floor.

He stopped moving. He did not come back up.

He blasted a hole in his own head, and he did not come back up.

The Diseased kept tearing at his corpse, looking for a spark. One of them screeched, tossing aside. Dark optics stared straight at the jet.

Cyclonus froze. His ventilation stopped.

“…Scourge.” His arm, the one transformed into blaster cannons, started to shake.

Scourge stared back at him, frame littered with bites still oozing fresh energon, bits of plating and wire mesh hanging from his dentae. The parody of his old friend quirked his helm, and a snarl oozed out of a torn throat as the creature advanced forward, broken ped trailing a smear of purple behind him. The Diseased wearing the face of his familiar was gaining in speed, growl rising into a shriek. The other infected perked as well, pushing up in a unified group before charging forward with the same screech.

It was instinct, pure and simple.

In one split second, Cyclonus lifted his arm, and shot the fastest straight in the head. The corpse fell several paces back from the punch of the blast. The next shots were equally as easy. The jet shoved the barrel of his blaster into a gaping mouth when a Diseased got too close. A shower of rotting parts splashed over his plating.

He was so focused on the other creatures that he’d forgotten about Scourge. Claws descended on him, and slashed across his face.

“Aaagh!” Cyclonus stumbled back. He lost his balance, and the body of his friend rammed into his, pushing him down.

Energon dripped onto his bleeding cheeks, sticky from curdling oral fluid. Scourge snarled down at him, dentae biting around the barrel of his blaster. Cyclonus slammed a grip around the other mech’s neck.

“—Aargh—ahh!” He struggled to keep the creature at bay, jaws clenched, lips curled in a grimace. He could’ve shifted the angle of his blaster. He could’ve pointed the cannon straight at the infected’s temple.

“…Scourge—...Scourge!” He called out, dentae bitten. “Scourge, it’s me, Cyclonus!” He called up at the mech. “Fight it! Don’t give in! _Fight it_!”

Scourge kept thrashing. His growl rose with every exertion, and a swipe at a silver wing jolted a cry from the jet.

The pain surprised Cyclonus. His grip loosened and slipped. A hand slammed down against his chassis, and claws sank into the seams of his plating, budding energon.

A cry burst past his lips. The jet jammed a clutch around the creature’s throat, and fought to push it back.

Scourge was gone.

No more late nights in basement bars.

No more sharing of poetry and song under a rising moon.

The claws sank deeper. Cyclonus squeezed shut his optics, and ground out another cry through gritted dentae.

It was no use.

Scourge had always been the stronger at ground brawls.

At least Orion was safe.

At least Cyclonus had kept his word.

His blaster was but an inch from shooting the creature in the head, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot his old friend. It was stupid sentimentalities – a weakness he could not rid himself of. He knew what he must do, but he hadn’t expected to point a gun at his own friend.

Scourge was a warrior. He should’ve been able to defend himself.

However, the mech was heroic to a fault. He could never leave behind a spark calling out for help.

And now, they were both going to die, because Cyclonus couldn’t engage the trigger.

There was a blur.

— _CLUNK_.

Suddenly, Scourge was gone. The weight lifted.

Cyclonus stared at the ceiling, shocked to stillness.

“Get away from him!” A voice echoed in the hallway, and a squishing thud followed, jolting a shutter from the jet’s optics.

Cyclonus sat up, and looked to his side. Orion stood over the twitching body of his old friend, a pipe in his hands. The grounder wore a grimace, brows knitted, optics wide and brimmed with coolant.

“Leave him alone!” The small mech screamed, and brought the pipe down.

 _Clunk_.

Cyclonus watched, gaze wide, wings trembling.

Orion kept beating the now unmoving body of the Diseased, pipe splashing bigger the puddle of energon and parts.

Cyclonus jerked out of his stupor. He sprung forward, and pulled the archivist from his old friend.

“What in the pits are you doing here?” He snapped at the civilian, squeezing around the slim wrists until the smaller mech dropped the pipe.

It clattered against the floor.

Orion was shaking. Tears streamed down his faceplate.

“Th-The bot at the gate wouldn’t—wouldn’t let us through, so I thought you could h-help us…” He hiccupped, ventilation a mess of spurts and gasps.

Cyclonus watched his charge. He wanted to stay angry, at the outbreak, at his stupid, old friend for getting himself killed.

Anger was easy, and finding a target should’ve been even easier.

He hated that he was told to play guard duty and run away to the moon.

He hated that he couldn’t even keep his word to Elita in protecting Orion.

He hated Orion for going against orders and coming back.

He hated himself for having been so _weak_ that he needed saving from the very mech he’d sworn to keep safe.

However, he did not have such luxury, not when he had duty to perform.

“Come.” He clasped his hand around the archivist’s elbow. “We’ve stalled long enough.”

Orion nodded, and followed along. He swallowed his sniffles, and wiped at his face.

Before long, the gates came into view. There was a copter there, surrounded by dead Diseased, holding a bot by the neck while an orange minibot hugged a stack of datapads to his chassis.

Most of that stack belonged to Orion.

“What happened?” Cyclonus stopped before the group, and asked over the copter’s cursing and shouting.

“The shuttle took off already by the time we arrived.” The minibot answered, brows knitted.

“It took off?” Cyclonus frowned, and rushed to the floor-length windows. “That’s impossible.” He gave the shuttle bay a scan.

There was no transport in sight. His lips curled. A curse gritted past his dentae, and he slammed a fist against the glass.

“C’mon, mech, let me down!” The bot dangling from the copter’s pincers struggled, kicking his peds. “It wasn’t my fault. The Council passed the order. I’m just doing what I was told!”

The Council. Of _course_.

The jet pushed from the view, and hissed an ex-vent.

“They left you behind too, you lubricant-guzzling scrapheap!” The copter battered his captive against the wall. “And now _I’m_ left behind!”

“What do we do now?” Orion walked up to his protector. He had his datapads back in his hands, and seemed to have gained a minibot tag-along.

“We can’t stay here.” Cyclonus replied, optics casting a red glow down his cheeks specked with drying energon. “The shuttle departed. There’s no way out.”

Fear drenched the archivist’s faceplate. The minibot pushed his spectacles up his nose, and shifted on his peds, lips pursed.

“We need to find a place to hide.” Cyclonus continued, “Stock up on supplies, and establish contact with Luna-2.”

“Can’t we…go to the outskirts?” The orange minibot spoke up, brows furrowed. “The populace is smaller there. We can find shelter. Perhaps someone kind enough to take us in.”

“No,” Cyclonus shook his helm. “The lock-down is in effect by now. Anyone leaving the city will be shot on sight. I will shoot them myself should we stumble upon one.” His blaster cannons whirred, rousing a startled glance from his audience.

“You can’t be serious.” Orion whispered, gaze widened.

“My duty is to protect you and ensure containment of the outbreak.” The jet stared down at the grounder.

“Good luck doin’ _that_.” A new voice butted into the conversation. The copter threw down his captive, and walked toward the group. “I used to bodyguard the Council. You catch wind of things when they think you’re just an idiot with big guns.”

The mech he was threatening got up, and scampered off.

“Iacon isn’t the only hit.” The copter burst a laugh with a toss of his helm. “The whole planet’s fragged, my pointy-horned friend!” He swept his arms out wide. “We’re probably the only ones still alive in this entire hub, and now there are hundreds of corpses out there after our sparks!”

Cyclonus narrowed his optics. His claws dug into his palms.

“Which is why _this_ is where we part ways.” He said, “You are not my responsibility.”

The copter twitched. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“You have your charge and I have mine.” The jet stated.

“What, y’mean _this_?” A pincer pointed at the minibot. “I don’t even know who he is!”

“Don’t you think we’d have a bigger chance if we stick together?” Orion piped up, ventilation quickening. “I’m not much of a fighter, but _he_ obviously _is_.” The archivist gestured to the copter. “He’s Special Task Force for the Council, isn’t he. _All_ Empurata are.”

The copter froze. His optic flashed.

“Look at all these bodies.” Orion gaped around the floor littered with frames and severed heads. “ _He_ did this.” The small grounder curled forward. “He killed all these people, and he can do it again. He clearly has no emotional attachment that would jeopardize his judgment.”

Cyclonus stiffened. His fist clenched tighter.

The copter stared.

“… _What_ did you just say about me?” Blue plating bristled.

“Splitting up now would be counterproductive at best.” Orion babbled, shoulders furling. “We need to think strategy. That’s the only way to get out of this alive. Numbers are against us, but if we work together, I’m sure we can come up with something because Iacon is our only chance now, and who _knows_ how many of _those_ things are out there and-and—Oh _Primus_ I just bashed a bot’s head in! I don’t even know him a-and I couldn’t stop! I couldn’t _stop_!”

Datapads clattered to the floor. The archivist collapsed to his knees, a trembling ball of limbs. His ventilation hissed, intakes wheezing, and his optics were bright, too bright, beaming as though beacons in the dim corridor.

“What the frag?” The copter hopped back a step.

Cyclonus jolted.

“Shh, shhh.” The minibot dropped his datapad, and knelt down beside the shaking, stuttering grounder. “It’s alright. It’s okay. I got you.” Skinny arms cradled the mech hitching in sobs. “You did what you could. You made a decision to the best of your abilities under the given circumstances. Come, breathe with me. Take deep, long ventilations. You have all the time in the world…”

“Uhh, sorry to be the aft, Doc,” The copter pointed down the corridor, “but we just ran _outta_ time.”

Cyclonus looked up. His engine growled at the resounding screech echoing down the hall.

“Unicron’s pits!” The copter cackled, unclipping the blasters from his hips. “I think that’s the whole waiting room!”

“We have to move!” Cyclonus reached down, and grabbed Orion by an arm.

“You’re _running away_?” The copter gaped.

“ _We_ are running away.” The jet hefted the archivist on his back. “Cover me.” He bolted toward the screaming horde, and ducked into an adjacent corridor.

“Aaagh _cogs_!” The copter spat out, shooting an arc at the wave of Diseased as he followed. “Just for the record? _You’re_ running away. _I’m_ savin’ your aft!” He dove into the hall after the jet. “C’mon, Doc! How fast can your little legs scoot?”

“Fast enough.” The minibot pattered at the end of the group, clutching a stack of datapads. “I’m Rung, by the way.” He called out over the shrieking behind them.

“Whirl!” The copter shouted.

“Cyclonus,” The jet announced, “And the grounder is Orion Pax.”

“Why’re you luggin’ him around?” Whirl asked as he shot a row of Diseased in the face. “He important?”

Cyclonus grimaced, and hurried up a flight of stairs.

“… _Very_.”

* * *

 

The air was heavy with soot. The heat was wet. Steam misted on plating until derma gleamed under the flickering lamps. Paint chipped and smeared with streaks of dirt and toil. The sound of pick-axe against rock was a steady beat echoing in a cavern of noise and voices.

His grip was slick again. He heaved a blast of hot air, and wiped his palms on a rag with frayed edges. The pipes groaned. He tossed a look overhead, and dabbed at his neck cables with the cloth. Optics narrowed, he sighed again, and tucked his only cleaning rag into subspace, lips curling.

The energon crystal glowed, casting his faceplate purple. If he worked fast, he could dislodge it just in time for the end of his shift. A crystal this size would probably get him a bonus if he insisted, and a bonus was what he needed for a visit to the home planet.

He’d made plans with Impactor. Surface time was rare these days, and his friend was dying for some cheap liquor.

“Hey Megs!”

Speaking of the mech.

“Yes?” Megatron paused his hacking at the rock face.

“C’m’ere for a sec.” Impactor stood at the mouth of a tunnel, huddled with several other bots. They were staring at the display screen, one that flickered at odd intervals and only tuned to Iacon Daily.

“I need the extra pay for planet side, Impactor.” Megatron lifted his pick-axe.

“No, c’mon.” Impactor waved at him, optics glued to the display. “You gotta see this.”

Megatron frowned. The mines were dark, and the flashing of the screen cast awkward shadows on his friend. However, he’s known Impactor long enough to read his features.

He’s never seen such a look on the other miner’s face.

With a sigh, the tankformer straightened, and abandoned the crystal. He walked up to the group, pick-axe in hand. Brows furrowed, he gave the bots a sweep, and turned to the display screen. At first, he couldn’t tell what was going on. There was fire, and silhouettes sprinting across the flashing light.

Then, he saw it – a mech missing a good chunk of his torso leaping on a four-wheeler and gauging into the chassis.

A startle rippled across the group of gathered miners.

“…What the frag was _that_?” Someone exclaimed.

No one answered her.

The scene switched back to the anchor, but the mine was too loud.

“Tell ‘em to shut up over there!” A bot shouted down the chute, and one of the mechs at the front fiddled with the volume nob.

The beats and clank of the cavern quietened as more workers trickled toward the screen. The speakers spat static, but the voice of the anchor bled through, just loud enough to be understood.

“… _overrun. All major cities are currently under enforced lock-down. Citizens are advised to stay indoors, and stock up on supplies for a wait period of up to two weeks. There is possible relocation for people living in the Iaconian and Praxian outskirts. Please stay tuned for further instruction_.”

“Relocation? What’s that _mean_? My sibling unit’s in I-Ca Sector F.” The same femme that first piped up looked around, brows furrowed under her visor.

“It means they’re on their own.” A transport bot beside Megatron scowled. “You weren’t here earlier, but the big shots are all coming to Luna-2. They’re abandoning the planet. The outbreak’s spread. Cities going dark. The Council’s gonna hide on this big rock until everyone at home kills each other or starves to death.”

“Outbreak? What outbreak?” A drill-former at the back of the group asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” A minibot at the front spoke up. “How long have you been in the chutes, mech? _Sparkeaters_ ,” He said, “They dunno where it came from, but bots are _eating_ each other.”

“Frag me to the pits…” The drill-former rubbed his faceplate.

“Hey shut up! The bot’s back on!”

Recordings of bomb fire cut back to the anchor.

“ _This just in: Vos is unaffected. I repeat, Vos is unaffected, and free from all infection._ ” The bot paused, a hand pressed to his audial as he listened to his comm.. “ _The Conference of Cybertron has convened to discuss a unified attack to reclaim the lost cities. There is still hope, citizens. There is still hope._ ”

“What a load of claptrap!” A bellow burst from the back. “Those wings never gave one _scrap_ about us!”

This roused a heated argument within the group. Megatron watched the screen, a slight frown on his faceplate.

“Got anyone back home?” Impactor turned toward him.

“Yeah.” His jaw-joints clenched.

“What d’you make of this?”

“I don’t know.” Megatron pursed his lips, and let out an ex-vent. “But there is no hope in Vos. The fliers won’t give. They have limited resources, and the same can be said of Luna-2.”

“Well _frag_.” Impactor grimaced.

“My thought exactly.” Megatron’s optics narrowed. “We’ll be the first to shuttle back to Cybertron.”

The Council only needed a handful of miners to make their labour worth their tanks, so most of them wouldn’t remain on the moon for long.

“In that case, the old Oil House’d better be open.” Impactor grunted, and crossed his arms. “At least make the trip worth a damn.”

“Drinks will be free.” Megatron tossed his friend a look.

A wide grin greeted him. “This is why I bunk with you.” An arm draped over his shoulders.

Megatron smiled.

The anchor appeared on the screen again. Something about Tetrahex being the least infected.

Tetrahex had better be nice this time of year.

His digits tightened around the handle of his pick-axe.

If they were lucky, they’d at least get to keep their tools as weapons.

* * *

The sky was overcast. There was a warning for rain. The flight paths cleared. Enforcers took out their repellent cloaks. The wind circulated within the Grand Hall of the Royal Tower, a cold draft crisp against wings. The walls were dim. The rest of the city was dark. Availability of resource was the biggest threat, and no one knew how long the epidemic would last.

“Your Highness,” A Striker Jet knelt down before the throne. “The Labyrinth is ready for closure upon your command.”

“Good.” The tri-coloured Seeker, clothed in silk embroidered with gems, gazed out the high arc of his hall, through the doorway at his city.

His remark furrowed the brows of a blue Seeker at the bottom of the golden stairs.

“What of our citizens outside the wall?” The blue one asked.

“Flight frames should, by theory, be safe from the reaches of sparkeaters, Sire.” A white Stealth Jet spoke up, sharing a glance with the blue Seeker. “If they are airborne, they are uninfected.”

Starscream shuttered his optics, and looked down at his gathered Royal Advisers. Thundercracker held softer sentiments, as usual, and he’d had the foresight to recruit Pristinus’s help. The voice of the Director of Health weighed heaviest in the time of a plague, even more than the Generals. Vos prided in its Fleets, but this was much more a matter of civilians, as evident in the Fall of Iacon.

“Pristinus,” The Crown Prince turned to the medic, “How certain are you that those we allow in won’t be carrying the virus in dormancy?”

“Based on what we know thus far,” The white Stealth answered, “The disease is transmitted through contamination of innermost energon. The spark appears to be the goal, but the exchange of fluids is what reanimates a frame. The lack of spark only makes the infected harder to—… _fend off_ , your Highness. In truth,” The Head Medic sighed, “We are not sure if it _is_ a virus. Sparkeaters have been creatures of myth. We have very little research about them.”

“There is only one effective way to bring them down,” A Fighter Jet spoke up with a bow, “And that is a direct hit to the central processors, your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Bladeflight.” Starscream looked out at his city once more. “I’ve heard enough.” His optics dimmed. “General Stormstrike?”

“Yes, your Highness?” The Striker Jet lifted his helm.

“Precisely one orbital cycle from now, you will close the Labyrinth gates.” The tri-coloured Seeker stated. “You will maintain the border. Anyone threatening our defenses will be shot on sight.”

“Affirmative.” Stormstrike bowed.

“What of the Council, Sire?” Thundercracker asked.

“Any ground-bound frames attempting to broach our city will be terminated.” Starscream narrowed his gaze.

“The Council has invoked the Conference of Cybertron.” The blue Seeker took a step forward. “As your Planetary Relations Advisor, I must insist that you at least _speak_ to them. We can’t just—”

“-Are you questioning the word of our _Crown_?” Bladeflight snapped at the diplomat.

“ _No_ , General.” Thundercracker took a sharp intake. “All I’m saying is that if we close our gates without so much an address, we will be violating a Treaty that Vos itself has penned and sworn to abide since the Great Quint War. Even _Tetrahex_ is considering taking in refugees. How do you think the rest of the planet will think of us if we shut our doors now?”

“The rest of the planet is busy eating each other.” A Conehead piped in.

“General Ramjet!” Pristinus rounded on the militant. “Have some respect.”

“Silence!” Bladeflight cut through the argument.

The Grand Hall simmered down to an unsettled quiet. Optics glanced at each other. Wings stiff.

Starscream regarded his Advisors. His medic, his Generals, his trine mate, and his silent Director of Commerce, who was trying to blend into a pillar.

His optics fell on the last of the group.

“Skyfire, my Intended.” He turned to the Space Shuttle. “What do you think?”

The Director of Science straightened from his bow. Shimmering blue optics glowed brighter than the light from the walls.

Starscream felt his intakes falter. His right wing twitched, digits tightening around the armrests of his throne.

“I think,” Skyfire spoke, voice a murmur compared to the impassioned words of his colleagues, “You should do whatever you feel you must, Sire.”

Starscream watched. A soft sigh bled from his vents as the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Very well.” He addressed his subordinates. “Our citizens have one full day to return to us before the closure of Vos. No ground-bound frame is to pass the Labyrinth gates during _or_ after. Thundercracker, _you_ will be my delegate in informing the Council of my decision. Any retaliation to my command will be met with _war_.” A hiss of intake. The orange canopy rose. “…Our Tetrahexian _kin_ can do as they please.” A scowl appeared on the Crown Prince’s faceplate. “They can perish where they lie. They will receive no aid from Vos.”

Thundercracker offlined his optics, wings wilting on his back.

“Affirmative, your Highness.”

The Royal Advisers of Vos knelt down in unison.

“All hail Prince Starscream!” Bladeflight’s voice echoed in the high ceiling of the Grand Hall.

Rain fell, pattering against the windows.

* * *

A train screeched on its tracks, spitting sparks. Fire roared from its broken windows, billowing in the wind. A blackened corpse hung from its door, half a torso caught by an arm. It battered against the bullet-ridden side of the carriage, and when the train rammed to a stop against a crash site, it started to writhe, a low groan oozing from its vocalizer.

Tailgate stared, clutching a steel pipe against his chassis as he snuck by. The white of his frame had smudged with dust, and the blue of his plating had long lost its polished luster, covered by crisscrossed scratches in its chipping paint. Fluids stuck to his plating, and with it came smears of ash, clinging onto his derma in grimy, black patches. One of his hip joints was throbbing from a bad fall. He could no longer transform, but he was alive, spark unscathed from the first wave of outbreak.

He hasn’t seen an Undead for almost ten minutes. That was, until he spotted the one caught in the door of a train. He contemplated leaving the shadow to give the mech the final rest he deserved. However, terror kept the minibot rooted in his cover, skulking against the buildings in case he needed a quick dive into tight spaces to escape.

Iacon had become a warzone. There were soldiers, and there were battles. Screams and shrieks soared atop the quick patter of artillery fire. Bombs sailed down from the heavens, streaks of smoke tainted red by the fire below.

The minibot still had a hard time wrapping his mind around his situation. Not even two hours ago, he was on his way to Swerve’s, to celebrate Rewind’s bonding. The street was full of people. The city strummed with life. Now…everything was quiet. Everything was empty. The air scalded upon intake, a dry burn sweeping through the filters. Each breath was a reminder that the world he’d known was gone, replaced by horrors unimaginable.

The jagged tip of his steel pipe dripped energon still. Bits of wire hung from it. He’d given up trying to keep it clean after his fourth kill.

Being small proved to be an advantage in a crazy world. He was harder to grab, and stabbing a bot in the faceplate was much easier when they were bearing down with their full weight. Being small also meant more hiding spots. Slipping under a piece of debris was the easiest way to avoid the Undead, especially when there were bigger, easier targets for them to claw after.

Tailgate paused at the end of a block, and peeked around the corner. There were noises beyond the huge cloud of smoke, but it sounded far, so he took off toward the next building, biting back a wince at the sharp jabs in his hip. He didn’t know what was going on, but figuring out how to survive didn’t take him long. Damage to the head terminated the Undead, but fighting for his life was too stressful on an injured frame. He needed a place to hide, and to hide, he needed supplies to keep him sustained.

The Undead were fast, but not smart. If he stayed quite and remained unseen, he could outlive this.

The disposal unit kept low against the buildings. His ventilation huffed in bursts, but it was no louder than the steady hum of faraway battle. The occasional shriek stalled his peds, but he didn’t wait for long. There was an energon distillery just a few blocks ahead. If he were lucky, the place would be well-stocked, which was likely, considering how fast the sparkeaters wiped out the population.

Tailgate hobbled to the store, and stopped just outside the entrance. There was a puddle of dulling energon under the door. The minibot clenched tighter around his pipe, and scanned his ident-chip at the keypad.

The door slid open with a beep. Tailgate crouched down to his knees, and stayed still, audials keen for any movement.

…eight, nine, ten…

He let out a quiet breath, and stood up. Holding the pointed end of his weapon before him, he walked into the establishment, visor bright as he gave the place a sweep.

Shattered cubes on the floor. Empty bullet rounds soaking in gleaming puddles of dark purple. Some of the shelves had toppled, but most of them looked undisturbed. The bottles behind the counter, however, lay in pieces. Fluids bled down like running paint.

Tailgate kept his back to a wall, and scooted toward the well-stocked shelves. They looked to be highgrade. Fancy highgrade at that. Ones he would’ve never been able to afford had the world not plunged into the pits. It was almost funny, but the sliver of humour died before it could form a single laugh. His subspace compartment could carry about five full cubes at best, but that should be enough to last him three weeks if he rationed.

He kept shuffling, visor wide. The glow from his gaze lit up his faceplate, casting an even spread of blue over his features.

His ped bumped into an empty round.

It clinked, and rolled away with a slight skid.

Tailgate shuttered his optics, and swallowed a curse. He stood still, intakes held, as he waited for any responding noise.

…nine, ten…

He let out the air he was holding. The thuds of his fuel pump could be felt on the surface of his chassis, but the hike in his shoulders eased a little.

Keep moving.

Just a tiny bit more…

He scooted, adjusting his grip around the pipe.

Almost—

 _Clink_.

A barrel hit the back of his helm.

“Don’t move.”

Tailgate froze, hitching a gasp.

He’d almost yelped, but the warm blaster barrel against his head pinched the sound to nil.

“Step back. Slowly.”

The minibot swallowed a whimper, and shuffled back, knees trembling.

“Keep quiet.” The voice instructed.

Tailgate hugged his pipe, and bit back the rising coolant. He couldn’t afford blurry vision. He backed up, just as he’d been told. He quickly realized that there was a passage between the shelves, one he’d missed in his initial hurried scan of the place.

Someone was hiding here. Perhaps until help comes?

If so, why didn’t they lock the door?

They should’ve barricaded the distillery.

“Weapons?” The voice asked.

Tailgate lifted his pipe. It shook in the air.

“That’s all?” The voice sounded surprised.

“I’m—I’m tiny,” He squeaked. “It helps when they’re—…wh-when they’re coming down at you…”

Then a soft snort.

The barrel jerked away from his helm.

“Sorry if I scared you,” The voice said. “Civilians are unpredictable when cornered, and I needed to make sure you weren’t going to scream.”

That would be stupid, not to mention suicidal. The Undead were drawn to noise, after all.

Tailgate rubbed the back of his head. He turned, chin dipped, and peeked up at the other bot. It was a femme, military class, with wide shoulders and a canon the size of a minibot strapped to her back. There were two blasters on her hip, and a row of stun bombs on her utility belt. The press of her lips was firm, but her optics were dim, barely a glow from her faceplate as she peered out through a crevice between highgrade cubes.

“How are you doing that?” The question blurted past his lips.

The femme tilted, and sent him a stare.

He stiffened, visor widening.

“I—I mean,” He whispered, “How do you see with your optics set so low?”

At first, she didn’t seem to understand. Then, a weak flash of light.

“Right, civilian class.” She said, and reached into a subspace compartment on her side. “Let me guess…city disposal?”

Tailgate’s visor grew even wider. “How did you know?”

At that, she breathed a laugh. “Your visor shines too much for an office job, and you’re small.” She glanced away as she took out some complicated looking gadget with a strap at the back. “But most importantly,” She handed the device to him, “Your arm says ‘Waste Disposal’ in giant glyphs.”

Tailgate felt his cheek warm.

“Oh.”

He took the thing, and fiddled with the strap.

The femme smiled. She looked much kinder. “Put it on.” She jerked her chin.

The minibot held the thing before him. “Um…” He frowned, “What is it?”

“Night vision goggles,” She answered. “It will let you see without you lighting a beacon for the Diseased.”

“Right.” The disposal unit shuttered his vision. “Sorry.” He stretched the strap, and hooked it around his helm. “Is that what they’re called? Officially?” He glanced at the femme. “The ‘Diseased’?”

“Calling them ‘Diseased’ is just for convenience.” She was staring out through the shelf again. A humourless huff left her lips. “And there is no ‘officially’ anymore. I lost contact with central command about thirty minutes ago.”

“You comm.s aren’t working either?” Tailgate looked up. Everything was suddenly a lot brighter, even though his visual sensors were back at regular levels.

“It’s working, but my long-range is gone.” The femme’s optics narrowed. “The communications tower got hit.”

“Got hit?” Tailgate frowned.

“By a bomb.”

The minibot struck speechless, a gape dawning on his expression.

“What?” He gave his head a curt shake. “ _Why_?”

“It was an accident.” The femme ex-vented, lips pursed. “A _stupid_ accident, which wouldn’t have happened if I weren’t isolated from my unit.” She pushed from the shelf, and began digging in her subspace. “Iacon’s scrapped. We were trying to move out when we were overrun.” She took out four grenades. “I lost a lot of good soldiers tonight. Bots I’ve known since they were cadets.” She clipped them onto her belt. “I’m not going to sacrifice more sparks to salvage a lost city. As soon as we reunite with them, we’re out of here.”

A handgun appeared out of her compartment. She weighed it in her hand, and checked the charge.

Tailgate stared at all the weapons that materialized out of her frame.

“…Who _are_ you?” He asked, voice hushed.

The femme looked up, as though it was the first time she considered that someone might not know who she was.

“I’m sorry.” She sighed again, and smiled, the gesture heavy on her features. “I should’ve introduced myself.” She turned on her haunches, and held out her hand. “First Lieutenant Elita-One, commanding officer under Grand General Galvatron,” She stated.

Tailgate stared some more.

“…Uhh…” He blinked, and snapped straighter on his heels. “Tailgate! I—…uhh…I work with garbage control.”

It sounded stupid even to his own audials.

Elita-One perked up. Her optics flashed in full.

“Surface or under?” She asked.

Did it matter? It was stupid either way.

“Um, under…” Tailgate shrugged a shoulder, and scuffed his peds against the floor.

“So you know the sewers?” The lieutenant leaned forward.

The minibot cast her glances. “Well, yeah,” He said, “But I’m stationed in the outskirts. Or I _was_. I dunno much about city-center.” He scratched the back of his helm. The strap was itchy.

“But you have the blueprints.” A grin was starting to blossom on her features. The glow of her optics brightened.

“Yeah, from like _years_ ago.” He looked up at her. Didn’t she say something about not being a beacon? “The management never bothered to update us.”

Elita-one took a deep cycle ventilation as she sat back on her heels. “They will do.” She said with a slight nod, the icy blue of her gaze intimidating to catch.

Tailgate clutched his pipe, and shuffled on his peds. “What are you talking about?” He lowered his faceplate, shifting to face the wall.

“We will take the sewers,” She announced, “and make our way to the communications tower.”

“ _What_?” The minibot startled, visor flaring. “We have no idea what’s down there! And it’s not like the blueprint tells me where everything is on the surface. The sewage system could be completely different!”

Elita-One arched a brow ridge. “When was the last time _any_ one’s tinkered with the _sewers_?”

“That’s not the point,” The disposal unit stuck out his chassis, helm raised. “The sewage might not have changed, but the city _has_. Remember the remodeling phase?”

“Yes, but the communications tower didn’t move.”

“But the valve gates _did_. Drainage routes reconfigure every time the city plan changes.” Tailgate turned to face the lieutenant. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but valve gates are two megatons of solid reinforced construction-grade metal. It’ll be a _maze_ down there with dead-ends we can’t plow through. Besides, didn’t you say the tower got bombed?”

“Yes, the main generators.” Elita-One answered. “The emergencies won’t come on without approval from an agent, but I have the override.” She took a pause to run a cycle of air, and scooted forward, draping her hands over the disposal unit’s shoulders. “Tailgate, listen to me.” She looked at the minibot, “If we return power to the system, I can hail my soldiers and plan a retreat. We can regroup in the outskirts, and fortify a sector as a sanctuary from the outbreak. You’ll be safer with me and mine, but I can’t go on with this plan without you.”

“…Aww _nooo_ …” Tailgate made a face behind his mask, turning away.

“So what do you say?” The larger bot wrapped her hands around his head to meet his visor. “If this works, we’ll be out of this pit-forsaken, sparkeater-infested hole,” She smiled, “and you won’t ever have to stab a bot in the face again.”

Tailgate stared at the femme from the edge of his gaze, and wilted at the expectant glimmer in her optics.

“Oh _pits_ …” He sighed, “I don’t have much of a choice, do I.”

The militant laughed, and leaned back. “Nope,” She grinned, helm tilting sideways, “I’m only asking to be polite.”

The minibot sent her a glare.

“Alright, fine,” He puffed up with an intake. “But if we’re going under, I have something I gotta do too.”

“Of course.” The femme dipped her head, and gestured toward him with an upturned palm.

“We’re gonna make a stop at Swerve’s. That’s a bar.” Tailgate said. “A friend of mine was supposed to have a party there, and I need to make sure—”

The word caught. His vocalizer glitched to static.

Elita-One shuttered her optics.

Tailgate stared at the femme. His vision was blurring again, and his grip around the pipe trembled.

“…I…” He took a shuddering breath, and jerked his faceplate down. “…I need to make sure.”

A hand rested on his shoulder.

“Of course.” The lieutenant gave him a gentle squeeze. “Whatever you need.”

The minibot nodded, and rubbed under the goggles.

“Can you transform?” He sniffed an intake, and looked up. “We’ll be faster on wheels.”

“Better not.” Elita-One unclipped one of her blasters. “An engaged transformation cog draws in the Diseased. We’ll be safer on foot.” She stood up.

Tailgate had to strain his neck cables to catch the femme’s optics. Holy Primus she was massive.

“Speaking of, here.” She bent down, and gave him the hand-gun. “Finger off the trigger unless you intend to kill.”

“I—I don’t think this is a good idea.” He held the gun with his palms, visor widening. “I don’t know how to shoot this.”

“You just shoot.” The femme patted him on the back. “Anyone can do this, Tailgate, though I’d prefer you to point it at something other than me.”

“Something other than you. Got it.” Tailgate nodded, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He looked at his pipe, then back at the gun.

“Keep the pipe.” Elita-One said. “It’s good for close and personal.”

“Right.” The minibot nodded again. “Of course.”

“Good.” The militant sent him a smile. “Are you ready?”

His knees knocked together. His spark shivered in its casing. His fuel pump had picked up into a gallop, and his grip shook around the gun, a quiver in every joint.

“Do you want the honest answer?” He couldn’t smile back, voice waning to a whimper.

She looked at him. Her smile dropped into a firm press.

“…We stay close to the building, and we do not fight unless we have to.” She wrapped a hand around his arm. “If anything happens, stick close to me.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “I’ll cover you.”

“Thanks,” He said, a shuddering breath filtering through his vents. “I’m glad I have you, Elita.” He shuffled closer, EM field brushing against hers.

Elita-One froze. It lasted only a blink of a second, but it was enough for the minibot to startle back a ped, wondering if he’d overstepped his boundaries.

He waited for her to tell him off. He expected her to scrap the plan and boot him out the door, and the thought almost veered him into panic, engine murmuring a sharp rev.

However, she only nodded, and led the way out around the shelf.

“Subspace as many cubes as you can.” She waved at the distillery as she made her way across the room. “Any fuel is precious resource.”

“Um…okay.” He answered, and scuttled to retrieve the cubes. He needed to be quick. He needed to make sure his friends were alright, to make sure the plan worked so Elita could get them all out of here to a safe place.

The gun felt heavy in his hand, but he clutched it tight in his grip.

Tailgate was a nobody, but he could stab a bot in the optics, and he could pull a trigger.

Even though coolant threatened to spill down his cheeks, a minibot mattered. A disposal unit mattered.

For now, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be much appreciated.


End file.
